Unwritten
by Wickfield
Summary: Dobbin knows exactly how he feels, and what he wants to say. The only problem is that Miss Amelia Sedley belongs to someone else.


**_A/N:_**_ This is the first time I've written Vanity Fair fic – but this one struck me at about midnight last night and I had to write it down! I aimed for Thackeray's style, which is surprisingly different from Dickens, I find. Anyway, hope you like it!_

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**Unwritten**

"Good God, Dob! You are in a very moony mood today! What on earth can you possibly be thinking of?"

Our good friend Captain Dobbin jumped, startled, as he was thus unceremoniously called back from his reverie, by a harsh, deep voice quite unlike the one he had just been thinking about. Considering this reverie concerned, in fact, Miss Amelia Sedley, we must not blame honest William for his hesitation in replying to her intended.

"Why, George – I should perhaps be _more_ surprised that _you_ have noticed _me_!" Captain Dobbin said, at last, as he righted a vase of flowers he had upset when he jumped. "You have been so busy writing, this half hour, I didn't think you noticed much else at all."

Osborne offered, in reply, a sort of uninterested grunt. "Yes, I have."

"Are you – are you writing to her, I suppose?" Dobbin ventured. For he could think of no other reason George would spend so much care on any letter. _If – if _I_ had such a sweet girl waiting for me – why, I think I should spend all the day writing to her, _he thought – and was instantly ashamed for thinking of his friend's lover in such an outrageous manner. But then, why should he be ashamed all of a sudden, I wonder? He had been thinking of her this way all morning.

Needless to suggest, he did not expect a reply like George's. "Her? What are you talking about? Oh, you think I'm writing to Emmy, don't you?"

"Yes, I admit I did, George – who else?"

"Here's a funny fellow!" the young officer laughed. "Do you think I'd write to _Emmy_ for fifty pounds? Heaven knows the dear girl would empty her little purse, if I asked her, but I am writing to my father. I suppose you will be very disappointed with me now, eh? I never write her enough, lately, for your liking."

"I'm sure I don't know enough about the subject, either way, to make any suggestion on the point," Dobbin answered, with one of his ungainly shrugs; we have already observed his private feelings on the matter. Evidently, this answer did not satisfy George, either. He took up his pen, and wrote a few more lines to his letter, with a frown – when suddenly he took up a fresh sheet from his desk which he passed, along with the pen, to his companion. "Why don't _you_ write her a letter, then, Dob, if you think she is in need of one! I daresay you could do a _much_ better job than I – even if you _haven't_ had much practice in the sport."

Dobbin took the pen and paper George thrust his way with a blank, embarrassed face. He felt his face turn white and red in turn – he could think of nothing to say, and wasn't sure whether to feel angry, or hurt, or what. "Why, Goerge, what would _I_ have to write to Miss Amelia Sedley?" he stammered.

"Anything you like, of course."

"But – I scarcely know her!"

"She is much the same as most other young ladies, Dobbin," George answered, blandly. "Talk of the other evening, at Vauxhall, or of me, if you like. I really do not care what you say."

And it was plain he didn't – Dobbin could see that clearly – though George expected him to write _something_, it was equally plain. Poor Dobbin took up the pen in his awkward left-handed grip, and stared at the paper for a moment. George laughed at his hesitation, which only confused him more – but what the younger officer did not realize was that his Captain was not at a loss for what to write because he could think of nothing to say – he was at a loss because he knew he could say _so much_. Though he had seen Amelia but once, the evening at Vauxhall, already he could have written pages on her sweetness, or her beauty, or her good-nature; his opinion on her voice, her lovely little singing voice, which had captured him in the drawing room a few days before, could have filled a dictionary alone. He knew all this, and considered it, twirling the pen in his hand, as he sat staring at the paper.

But he did not have the right to such a letter. He knew that well enough. And so, with a certain sigh, he began to write:

_Dear Miss Sedley,_

_I hope I see you well. It is but mild weather we are experiencing here in town; a little cool, but not overmuch, or enough to upset our humors, and I pray you are experiencing the same – _

"The WEATHER, Dobbin?! My God, you _are_ a gawky!" Osborne snatched the letter out of the Captain's hand before he wasted the sheet further, and took the pen for good measure. "I thought you'd do better than _that_, at least! Lord!" George was embarrassed for Dobbin, though perhaps moreso for himself; you know, as well as I, that none of us cares to have ridiculous friends – it only makes us look ridiculous, in turn. We are, after all, judged by the company we keep.

William watched his friend return to his request for fifty pounds, without a word. "I never want to hear you criticize me on my writing habits again," George muttered, as he wrote. "I may not write Emmy much, but at least it's worth reading when I do!"

Dobbin, for his part, knew his own unworthy secret; and he was quite placid when he answered, quietly, "I suppose you are right, George. Perhaps, another time, I will have something more to say."


End file.
